The Runaway Part 6

"You have no right to take me," said Warren; "you have no warrant."

"No; but I can keep you here till I send for one, which I shall certainly do, unless you consent to go willingly."

And Warren, conscious of his own innocence in this respect, and never thinking of the difficulty of proving it, went to a magistrate's office with the clerk at once.

The clerk entered his complaint, and, besides swearing to the offer of the notes, swore that he had seen him, for several days past, in the company of a notorious gambler.

Warren was stunned, overwhelmed, by this declaration. No representation that he made was believed. His pockets were searched, and all the money he had, except some small change, was found to be counterfeit. A commitment was at once made out against him, and he was sent to jail, to await his trial on the charge of pa.s.sing counterfeit money.

This is one of the methods by which professional gamblers "pluck young pigeons." No young man is safe who allows himself to play with cards, or to handle dice.

Rodney believed that Warren had told him the truth, and fellowship in misfortune drew the hearts of the duped man and the wronged boy towards each other; for though both had been very much to blame, yet duped and wronged they had been by knaves more cunning and wicked than themselves.

They had many serious conversations together, for both had been piously instructed, and Warren, who seemed truly penitent for his wanderings, as he sat by the bed-side of the sick boy, encouraged him in his resolutions to lead a different life,--to seek the forgiveness and grace of G.o.d through a merciful Redeemer. Seldom has a poor prisoner received sweeter sympathy, or more salutary counsel, than was given to Rodney within the walls of that old Arch-street jail, by his fellow-prisoner.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

"Rodney," said Warren to him one day,--it was the first day that he had left his cot,--"I shall soon leave this place; I have written to my father, and he will be here at the trial with such evidences in my favor, from the whole course of my life, as cannot fail to secure me an acquittal. I feel no doubt that this stain upon my character will be wiped away. And I believe that I shall have reason to thank G.o.d, as long as I live, for having permitted this trouble. It is a very hard lesson, but I trust it will be a salutary one. Since I have been here, I have prayed earnestly to G.o.d for the pardon of my sins. I have resolved, in sincerity of soul, to consecrate my affections and my life to his service. I have had a severe struggle; but I believe, I _feel_, that G.o.d has heard my prayers, forgiven my iniquities, and the last few days in this jail have been the happiest of my life. I feel that I hate the sins of which my heart has been so full, and that I love G.o.d even for the severe providences that have checked my course of impenitence. I feel like a new man; and if I am not deceiving myself,--and I pray that I may not be,--I have experienced that regeneration of heart of which I have so often heard, but which I could never before comprehend.

"I hope that you, too, will try and seek the Saviour, pray to him for forgiveness, and beg the guidance of His Holy Spirit for your future life. If we both do this sincerely, we shall have reason forever to bless G.o.d for the way in which he has led us."

"Pray for me," said Rodney; while tears rolled down his pale cheeks. "I want to be a Christian, and I hope that G.o.d will have mercy upon me, and guide me, for the future, in the right path."

A few days after, Warren was called into court to take his trial; and, to Rodney's great delight,--for he had learned to love him like a brother,--he heard from one of the nurses that he had been honorably acquitted.

During the same week, the case of Rodney was called up, and he was conducted by an officer to the court-house.

CHAPTER XI.

THE TRIAL.

Justice was now to be administered, and Rodney was brought into the crowded court-room for trial. The officer led him to the prisoner's narrow dock, an enclosed bench, at each end of which sat a constable, with a long staff in his hand. There were five or six other prisoners sitting in the dock with him. Next to him was a woman, her garments ragged, her hair matted, and her face red and bloated. Next to her sat a squalid negro, who seemed totally indifferent to the scenes that were pa.s.sing around him.

On the other side of him was a young man, apparently about twenty years old, of thin, spare form, with a red flush at intervals coloring his cheek, and a hollow cough that sounded like an echo from the grave. He was evidently in a deep consumption, and had been already several months in prison. And he leaned his head upon the railing, as though he would hide himself from every eye. He had been tried a few days before, for having been a.s.sociated with others in a burglary, and found guilty, and he was now present to hear his sentence.

After the formal opening of the court, this young man was the first called upon, and, with trembling limbs, he rose to hear the sentence of the judge. After some remarks upon the enormity of his crime, and the clear evidence upon which he had been convicted, the judge sentenced him to five years' imprisonment in the penitentiary. When those words, _five years_, reached him, he dropped back upon the seat, as if struck with a bullet, and then raising his face to the judge, with an expression of profound anguish, said, "Half the time would be more than enough, your honor; I shall be in the grave before one year is past."

The case of the negro-man was immediately called up, but Rodney heard nothing of it. He hid his face in his hands, and wept. A sense of his terrible position flashed upon him, and he could not keep back his tears, or stifle his sobs. He wept aloud, and _felt_, though he might not see, that all eyes were turned upon him. His whole frame shook with the anguish of his soul.

Presently a hand was laid upon his, and a head was bent over the bar near him, and a voice addressed him kindly: "Be calm, my boy; there is no good in crying; who is your counsel?"

Rodney looked up, and saw a young man, well dressed, and with an affable and winning countenance, standing before him. His face looked kind and benevolent, at least in Rodney's eyes, for he had spoken to him gently and encouragingly.

He replied to his question, "I have no counsel, sir; I have no money."

"Well, I will try what I can do for you," said the young lawyer. "Come out here, and sit by me, and tell me what you are here for."

He led him out of the disgraceful dock, gave him a seat directly in front of the jury, sat down beside him, and asked him to tell him the truth about all the circ.u.mstances that led to his imprisonment and trial. Rodney told him truly all that happened from the time of his running away to his arrest. He told him, too, who he was, and who were his relatives in the neighborhood of Philadelphia. He had never spoken of these before.

"Well," said the lawyer, "I don't see that they can bring anything out to hurt you, if that is the true statement of the case. And now, my boy, you may cry as much as you wish."

Rodney looked up, surprised, wondering what on earth he wanted him to cry for. He thought afterwards that the advice was probably given that his weeping might affect the sympathies of the jury, before whose eyes he was sitting. But he could scarcely have shed a tear then if his liberty had depended upon it. He felt as though he had a friend, and his consciousness of innocence of any violation of human law, and his confidence that his new friend could show that he was guiltless, set his perturbed heart at rest, and he felt sure that he should be acquitted.

When the court adjourned, the lawyer took out a card, and, giving it to Rodney, said, "If your case should be called up before I get here this afternoon, just tell them that I am your counsel, and they will put it off till I come. Here is my name."

There was but one word on the card, and Rodney kept it long as a grateful memento of the disinterested kindness that had been shown him in the hour of his bitter trial. The name on the card was

+-----------------------+ WATMOUGH.[A] +-----------------------+

[A] This is not a fict.i.tious but the real name of the gentleman whose kindness it commemorates.

That young lawyer never knew the grat.i.tude with which his name was remembered for long, long years, and the thrill of emotion which its utterance always excited in the heart of that befriended boy. An act of kindness is never lost, and many a one which the benefactor may have forgotten, has won for him the prayers and blessings of a grateful heart.

During the recess, Rodney was conducted across Independence-square to the old Walnut-street prison. He ate his scanty prison dinner that day with a light and hopeful heart; and though he trembled at the idea of the coming trial, yet he did not for a moment doubt that the result must be his acquittal. He believed that the law was framed to punish the guilty, and to do justice to the innocent; and he could scarcely conceive that the guiltless could be made to suffer by its administration.

Immediately after the opening of the court, in the afternoon, the case was called up. The woman in whose house the robbery was committed, and one other, were witnesses; but not one word was said by either, in any way implicating Rodney in the robbery, beyond the fact that he had come to the house in company with the robber.

His friend made a very brief speech, demanding his acquittal; the judge said a few words to the jury, who consulted together for a moment, when the foreman arose, and p.r.o.nounced the happy words, "_Not Guilty_."

And now the tears again rained down the cheeks of Rodney, as he came out of the infamous dock,--but they were tears of joy.

A few kind questions were asked him by the judge; and a small sum of money, contributed by him and by several of the members of the bar, furnished Rodney the means of returning to his friends.

CHAPTER XII.

CONCLUSION.

Hastening to the end of our narrative, we pa.s.s by several intervening months, and witness again another Sabbath morning in May.

Some twenty miles from the city of Philadelphia, a sparkling little brook pa.s.ses through the meadow of a beautiful farm, losing itself in a thick wood that divides the contiguous estates.

On that lovely May morning,--that serene Sabbath,--there might have been seen,--there was seen by the Omniscient eye,--a lad, some fifteen years old, walking thoughtfully along the margin of that little stream, and penetrating into the thickest part of the wood. He carried a book in his hand, and sat down close by the stream, under the shade of an old beech tree. And as he read, the tears streamed from his eyes, and his sighs indicated a burdened spirit. Indeed, his heart was very sad. He was oppressed by the consciousness of the great sinfulness of his life and heart against the holy and benevolent G.o.d. He remembered the early instructions he had received at home and in the Sabbath-school. He recalled the precious privileges he had enjoyed, and he remembered, with anguish and shame, how wickedly he had disregarded all these instructions, abused all these privileges, and sinned against his own knowledge of right, against his conscience and his G.o.d. He had long been burdened with these distressing emotions; he had often prayed, but had found little relief of his anguish, even in prayer. And now, even on this calm and beautiful Sabbath morning, there seemed to his heart a gloom in the landscape. There was a smile, he knew, upon the face of nature, but he felt that it beamed not for him.

The carol of wild birds rung out sweetly around him; but the music saddened his heart yet more, for there was no inward response of grat.i.tude and joy. The bright green of the Spring foliage and of the waving gra.s.s seemed dark and gloomy, as he gazed upon it through tearful eyes. His mourning spirit gave its own sombre interpretation to all the lovely scenes of nature. He deeply felt that he was a wretched sinner against G.o.d, and he could not see how G.o.d could be merciful to one who had so grievously transgressed. He scarcely dared to hope for the pardon of his iniquities, and was in almost utter despair of ever obtaining mercy.

The book he had taken with him in his morning walk, was "Doddridge's Rise and Progress of Religion in the Soul." He read, carefully, the twelfth chapter in that excellent work, ent.i.tled, "The invitation to Christ of the sinner overwhelmed with a sense of the greatness of his sins." He was convinced that Jesus Christ was _able_ to save even _him_; and the strong a.s.surances of his _willingness_ to save, "even to the uttermost," furnished in the promises of the gospel, began to dawn upon his mind as he read what seemed like a new revelation to his soul. When he read these words of Jesus, "Come unto me, all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest,"--"Him that cometh unto me I will in no wise cast out,"--though he had read, or heard them read, a thousand times before, it seemed now as though they had been written expressly for him. There seemed a freshness, a force, a glorious personal adaptation in them which he had never seen before.

He turned over the leaves of the book, and the chapter on "Self Dedication" caught his eye. He read it; and when he came to the prayer with which that chapter closes, he kneeled down, with the book open before him, and solemnly, and with his whole heart, repeated that fervent prayer. It seemed to have been written on purpose to express his emotions and desires. When he had concluded, he closed the book, and remained still upon his knees, and tried, in his own language, to repeat the sentiments of that solemn act of Dedication. Never was a boy more sincere and earnest than he.

How long he prayed he did not know; but when he rose and looked round him, the sun had long pa.s.sed its meridian, and the shadows of the trees were cast towards the east.

There was a delicious, joyful calm in his soul. All doubts of G.o.d's willingness to pardon and receive him had gone. A veil seemed to have been removed from the character of G.o.d. He thought of G.o.d as he had never thought before,--not as a stern and unrelenting Judge, but as a forgiving, loving Father. He saw, as he had never seen before, how sinners could be adopted as children of G.o.d, for the sake of the sufferings and sacrifice of Jesus.